


quatre saisons

by PoeFaraday



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Baby Lawyer!d'Artagnan, F/M, Knotting, Leather, M/M, Marking, Mechanic!Aramis, Modern AU, Motorcycles, Pack Feels, Sexual Content, Slow Build, werewolves au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeFaraday/pseuds/PoeFaraday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tries not to think about how it was only supposed to be a bit of fun, how he was trying to loosen up and not be so frigid all the time. He succeeds in reminding himself why he tried celibacy in the first place; everything always ends messily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quatre saisons

**Author's Note:**

> So... uh. This grew great big hairy muscular legs. 
> 
> Not specific to any location. Kind of gave up on that pretty quickly.
> 
> Huge thanks to Rizbit, Kelsey, Nat, and Chelsea for peeking and saying lovely things and offering much-needed suggestions. 
> 
> Also, apologies if the formatting is wonky. I'm on mobile only until further notice.

D’Artagnan is naked, which would be alright if he were safe and sound in his bed at home, equally-naked companion optional. The trouble is, he is very much not at home - his or otherwise - but is rather curled up in the tall, scratchy grass on the side of the highway. He shivers bodily, suddenly struck by the thought of what kinds of insects and undesirable six-plus-legged things might be crawling all over him, and sits bolt upright. 

Which is when he sees the cop car parked on the shoulder, maybe twenty feet away. 

And then he sees the officer approaching. 

And his brain processes just how naked he is, which makes a deep blush rise in his skin all over. 

“Excuse me, sir, can I talk to you for a moment?” the cop calls, no suggestion that d’Artagnan has an option at all in his tone. D’Artagnan can’t see his eyes through the dark aviators the cop is wearing, and dimly he recalls hearing that that’s one of their disorientation tactics but then the cop is speaking again and he thinks he should maybe listen. 

“Ah, yes. Um. Sorry,” d’Artagnan stammers, shoving a hand down to cover himself as best he can. Which is when he notices that he’s covered in dirt and - blood? Oh, please, God, tell me that’s mine…

“Sir, have you been drinking?” the cop asks, firm and unyielding. 

D’Artagnan looks stricken. “God I hope so,” he mutters. Because if he hasn’t already, he’s definitely going to need to once the cop lets him go. 

“What was that?”

D’Artagnan shakes his head. “Yes, sorry. I had a rough night last night. I don’t remember much of what happened.” 

“Can I have your name, please, sir?” the cop asks. “I don’t expect you have any ID on you.” 

As d’Artagnan answers the cop’s questions, he tries to think back to the night before. Everything is just… a black hole. A gaping tear where the last fifteen hours or so should have been. He remembers coming home from work. He remembers getting a text from George asking if he wanted to hit the pub. He remembers dropping the stack of legal briefs (his friends from the firm have about twelve different jokes about legal briefs) on the coffee table and spilling an old carton of fried rice, and then not having time to change out of his work clothes after cleaning up. 

Shit. That meant that his suit was somewhere out there. In the general world-at-large, because he couldn’t remember where he’d taken it off. Or where it had been taken off of him. Or torn off. Or--

“Alright, Mr. d’Artagnan, why don’t I get you home? I’m just giving you a verbal warning this time, but if I find you out here again--”

Before d’Artagnan finds out what will happen if this particular cop finds him out here again, there is the roar of a motorcycle. Not a chopper. Not a crotch rocket. Something artful, dignified. All fluid chrome curves and polished paint. Black. Classy, but not showy. And then d’Artagnan looks at the creature who is suddenly walking towards them with purpose, blue-jeaned legs carrying him in long, powerful strides. 

“Oh thank fuck,” the man breathes, and d’Artagnan wonders if he somehow had the good fortune to be acquainted with this person last night. “Officer, I am so sorry. I’ve been looking all over for him - I’m sorry you got here before me.”

The cop turns to regard the newcomer - leather jacket… black leather looks good on him, even if he doesn’t look the type to ride a… an Indian? Is it an Indian? I’ll have to ask him - who has also brought some kind of blanket or sweater or something, which he tosses to d’Artagnan. “This your friend?” the cop asks, and d’Artagnan is too busy pulling the fabric around his body to answer.

“Yes, sir,” the other man says, pushing his sunglasses up to sit on the crown of his head. “Went a bit harder than usual last night and he got away from us. We’ve been looking for him all night - we were so worried. It’s good to see him in one piece. You never know what could happen to somebody out here late at night.” 

The cop seems satisfied and nods. “Alright. Well. Get him home, and I don’t want to see him out here again, understand?” 

The man nods, going over to d’Artagnan and taking his hand - warm hand, rough hand. Soft hand? Eh, kind of soft. Man-soft. Heartbeat - whoa, I can feel his heartbeat through his hand. That’s...unusual - and helping him to his feet. 

“You gentlemen have a good day,” the cop says with an air of warning before heading back to his cruiser. 

Once the cop car has pulled away, d’Artagnan remembers to breathe. He can’t think of why he forgot in the first place. 

“Sorry about that. I know this must be, uh… a lot for you.”

Oh. That’s right. The warm arm that’s found its way around his shoulders. 

D’Artagnan takes a fuller breath, clutching the blanket tight around him. “Thank you. Really, thank you. I mean...I don’t even know you. I think. Do I know you?” He can’t help but glance over and watch the man type out a text with one thumb, even though he can’t quite read the words. 

“Let me get you into some clothes and I promise I’ll explain,” is the reply. “Trust me, you’ll want to be as comfortable as possible when you find out.” 

That seems a bit...suspect, d’Artagnan decides, but he doesn’t really have an option. At the very least, this guy doesn’t seem about to turn him into some kind of sex slave or hack him to pieces with a blunt axe. So that’s good. 

And then d’Artagnan can feel the man’s gaze on him, piercing the side of his head, more physical than any other time somebody’s looked at him. He almost thinks that the arm around his shoulders is protective - this man is trying to protect him, to take care of him. D’Artagnan turns to meet his gaze. The man begins to turn away, but he’s just too slow. 

Their eyes meet. 

And there is a sudden pressure like an atom bomb going off in d’Artagnan’s chest. He gasps, sucking in air as the force detonates, as blue-green-grey eyes meet his, as pupils blow out and turn blue-green-grey into black, as the blood surges through his body with more velocity than he thinks is humanly possible. 

And then everything dissolves, including his consciousness.

\--

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” Athos says into the phone, shifting his grip on the sudden dead weight of the young man against his side. 

“You sound… I don’t know. What did you do? Oh-- Oh my God. You sighted him, didn’t you?” 

Athos can barely conceal the scowl that rumbles from his throat. “I didn’t mean to. Little fucker is faster than I thought.” 

“Oh, that’s cute. He just couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”

“Fuck off, Aramis.”

“Okay, okay. So are you gonna sling him over the back of your bike, or--?”

“God, I’m not a savage. Have Porthos bring the truck. Please. We’re at the side of the road about a quarter of a mile past exit three,” Athos replies. “And please be quick about it. I’d rather just get this over with.”

Aramis chuckles on the other end. “Alright. We’ll be out as soon as possible. Don’t do anything, ah, untoward while you’re waiting, yeah?”

Athos sets his jaw. “Hurry up,” he grunts before hanging up on the sound of Aramis snorting. 

\--

The truck pulls up about twenty-five minutes later, which is about ten minutes later than Athos thinks they should have arrived. D’Artagnan is still out - unsurprising, since the effects of sighting can last upwards of four hours in some cases. 

Thankfully, only Porthos is in the truck, which means that he either talked Aramis out of coming or somebody showed up to the shop needing service. Athos thanks his lucky stars either way. 

“Christ,” Porthos whistles, coming over to stand over them, his corded, bear-like arms sticking out at angles, his hands on his hips. “What did you do to him?”

Athos sighs, long-suffering. “For the last time, I did not do it on purpose.”

Porthos can’t help but chuckle, crouching down beside them. “Mis said you sighted him. Have you made sure he’s still breathing?” 

“Of course I fucking have, do you think I’m stupid?” 

Porthos holds up his hands in defense, straightening up. “Alright, easy. Just want to make sure. You remember that one kid, the one that Havet did--”

“That boy couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and had the muscle mass of a starved weasel. Of course he wasn’t going to survive the sighting. It’s a wonder he made it through the first bite. Now are we leaving or not?”

“Yeah, alright, let’s go. We could take him back to the shop, but we’ll have to go in the back way - some Subaru came in with a snapped serpentine belt and I know Aramis had to call in the part, so I don’t know if the guy was gonna wait around or what,” Porthos replies. 

Athos stands up, hauling d’Artagnan’s still-unconscious form with him. “I don’t want to stay long there anyway. Just long enough to get his clothes and his wallet. He should be at home when he wakes up.” 

Porthos rubs the back of his neck. There is always a thin veneer of sweat there, even on a breezy April day such as this. “You’re probably right. He’ll have quite the headache and on top of that, finding out you’re a werewolf is something best done in the comfort of one’s own home.”

“Exactly. Now let’s get going. Hopefully Aramis will be elbows-deep in motor oil and too busy to notice us.”

\--

Aramis, though he is indeed elbows-deep in motor oil when they arrive, is not too busy to notice them. 

“Well hello there!” he calls, the cat that ate the canary. “Glad to see you made it. How’s the pup doing?”

Athos draws a breath, leaving d’Artagnan slumped in Porthos’s arms as he goes through to the little apartment attached to the back of the shop. Aramis had taken it upon himself to turn what could have been an office into a bedroom, and renovated what could have been a third work bay into a kitchen and living room. Because that was his version of practicality. “Aramis, we do not have time for this. We’re just getting his things and taking him back to his house.”

Not waiting for a reply, Athos hurries through to Aramis’s room, where he’d thrown the boy’s things the night before. He tries not to think about how it was only supposed to be a bit of fun, how he was trying to loosen up and not be so frigid all the time. He succeeds in reminding himself why he tried celibacy in the first place; everything always ends messily. He picks up the clothes, which he’d found while searching for the boy after he’d changed - and he’d taken to the change so quickly. Athos had been truly stunned. Half an hour of chatting at the bar. Fifteen minutes of internal wrestling over the potential implications of listening to his demanding cock for once. Ten minutes to get from the bar to Aramis’s place - “It’s close, nobody will bother you, fully furnished, use all the condoms and lube you like” - and about forty-five minutes of some seriously intense foreplay. And then something had reached inside Athos’s brain and taken over, causing him to bite the boy. Half an hour after that, d’Artagnan had woken up with a start, his body changing. He’d managed to get out of the place without breaking any windows or doors, but then Athos had lost him. Cue the search. 

“Porthos,” Athos calls from in the bedroom, “we should probably dress him. Preserve what little dignity the poor boy has left.”

Porthos carries d’Artagnan in, and together, they maneuver him around until at least his shirt and underwear are on. Still no sign of him regaining consciousness. Athos figures they’ll have at least enough time to get him back to his own apartment. If they’re lucky, he’ll sleep a while longer after that. To be changed and sighted both in less than twenty-four hours is bad enough on a newly-changed werewolf’s system. Less than twelve can be a death sentence for the weaker ones. Thankfully, Athos seems to have chosen a stubbornly strong person to bite, even if the choice wasn’t so much a conscious one. 

Once d’Artagnan is at least covered, Porthos hauls him up again, cradling him in his arms like a gangly, oversized baby. He leads Athos back out of the room, and they make a beeline for the exit. 

“That’s it, you’re just leaving?” Aramis calls.

“Yes. We have to get him home,” Athos replies, pausing with the slightest hesitation. 

Aramis scrubs at his sweaty, grease-dark forehead with a rag, which doesn’t help save for just sort of smudging the grease around and making him look more rugged and attractive. Bastard. “You’re no fun. You’re the parent that would make us put up signs and call around if we found a lost puppy instead of letting us keep it.”

The corner of Athos’s mouth pulls up in a tight little almost-smile. “Then I’m glad you have one sensible parent.”

\-----

The key to d’Artagnan’s apartment is in his pants pocket, and Athos is silently glad that he had stuck with putting on just the boxer briefs. Porthos raises an eyebrow bisected by a long, thin scar as Athos lifts the key to the lock.

“What?” 

Porthos shrugs, the motion jostling d’Artagnan only slightly. He’s still out, so it doesn’t matter. “Seems a little…”

Athos draws a breath and his face goes a bit slack. “If you’re going to say something like ‘dishonest’ or ‘rude’ or ‘questionably moral’--”

“Oh no, not at all, carry on,” Porthos replies, shaking his head. Athos isn’t convinced. “Bit like breaking and entering though, isn’t it?”

“No, it is nothing at all like breaking and entering, Porthos, because I am using his key that I am going to leave on his person, and I have no intention of taking anything inside this apartment,” Athos replies with an air of nobility, unlocking the door. 

They go inside, and the first thing Athos notices is that the place, while a mess, is not a complete dump. It’s small, and the trash bin is overflowing, and there’s file boxes and manila folders and paper clips everywhere, and there’s probably three separate days’ worth of Chinese food cartons all over, but all in all, it’s not as bad as it could be. Certainly not as bad as Aramis’s place gets sometimes. 

Through the combination kitchen-and-living room is a tiny hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom. The bedroom is in almost pristine condition, which Athos has to admit he finds a little interesting. The bed is even made. And then he puts two and two together and thinks that perhaps d’Artagnan spends more nights passed out on the couch than he makes it to the bed. The life of an aspiring legal-aid, though why anyone would aspire to that and not, you know, an actual lawyer is a bit beyond Athos. 

Porthos puts d’Artagnan to bed as if the boy is his son. He tucks him under the covers while Athos pulls the blinds closed, though as he does so he thinks absently that it probably won’t matter. Once Porthos is satisfied that their little friend is safe and comfortable, he and Athos head back out towards the door. 

“Oh, one moment,” Athos says, spotting a legal pad out of the corner of his eye. He grabs it along with a black stick pen, which he scribbles a few times on the paper to get it going before writing. 

Call me when you wake up.  
Have a tall glass of water, then call me.  
You’re going to have questions. I can answer them.

And then finishes off the note with his cell number underneath. He goes back to the bedroom and sets the note under d’Artagnan’s cell phone, definitely not pausing to look at the boy as he sleeps, ebony eyelashes resting against his cheeks, looking about fifteen years younger than he truly is, his full lips just barely parted… 

No, no, no.

He goes back to join Porthos and together they leave the apartment, making sure to turn the lock before closing the door behind them. Porthos doesn’t even ask about the blush in Athos’s cheeks.

\------

D’Artagnan can’t remember a worse hangover. The icing on the cake, of course, is that he honestly doesn’t think he drank that much last night. For the briefest of moments, he wonders if somebody drugged him, but that doesn’t make sense because he’s in his own room, nothing seems out of the ordinary, and he certainly isn’t hurt. 

And then he remembers. 

Waking up on the side of the road, the cop, the Indian, the guy with the leather jacket… and that’s all. Everything after is just blank. So how did he end up back here? 

Of course there’s a note. Yellow, lined paper, folded neatly in half, on his nightstand. Curiosity gets the better of him in record time, and he dials the number written there in crisp, unadorned handwriting.

He doesn’t wait for the greeting when he hears the other end pick up.

“A bit cinematic, don’t you think?” 

“...I’m sorry?” 

D’Artagnan sighs, running a hand through his hair and fighting back a stupid grin. That voice - he can remember that voice, remembers hearing it over the noise of the bar, remembers lips just barely against his ear after shouting “what?” about a thousand times. The memory makes his stomach flutter. And then his stomach really lurches. 

“You didn’t have a glass of water, did you?” that voice asks as d’Artagnan scrambles out of the bed, hurrying to the bathroom just in case. 

“What do you, have my place bugged?” d’Artagnan tries to joke, but nearly drops his phone into the toilet as he dry-heaves. 

“I’m serious. Drink some water. As cold as you can make it. You’ll feel better.”

D’Artagnan manages to get to his feet and he turns on the bathroom tap and grabs the plastic cup he keeps beside the faucet. He fills it and sips, and then takes a big swallow, realizing his thirst. The next thing he knows, he’s gulped down four full cups of water and is filling a fifth. 

“Sorry,” he says over the phone, seeing that the call is still running. 

“It’s alright. This is why I said you should do that before calling me.” 

D’Artagnan drinks the fifth cup and turns the tap off, though he could really probably go for two or fifteen more. “Okay. So first of all, I guess I should thank you for saving my ass this morning. And I should apologize for making an ass out of myself, I expect. I really don’t know what happened last night. Something must’ve gotten into me - heavy-handed bartender or something.”  
“You’re welcome for saving your ass, though in part, I was also saving mine. And it wasn’t your fault, and you weren’t that drunk. Like I said: questions.”

“Right, and so...answers?” d’Artagnan says expectantly. 

“Yes. Not over the phone. Do you mind if I come over? It’s best if we do this in private, and somewhere that you’re comfortable.”

“Do you know where I-- nevermind. Sure, yeah. Just… let me shower and--”

“Of course. I’ll leave you plenty of time to collect yourself. Oh, it’s Athos, by the way.”

D’Artagnan furrows his brow and rubs his eyes. “Right, right. I think I remember that. Athos. Right. Okay. Yeah, so just… give me a bit and you can come over. No problem.”

“Just to warn you,” Athos adds, no real hint of warning in his voice, “I have a couple of friends that might join me, but I’m going to do my best to make sure they don’t.”

And if that wasn’t the most cryptic fucking thing d’Artagnan thinks he’s ever heard. “O-Okay. Sure. Whatever. I’ll see you later.”

The line goes dead without another word from either party, and d’Artagnan can’t decide whether he wants more water or a shower first. He chooses neither. 

“Hey, George,” he greets as his friend picks up the other line. 

“Hey, buddy!” George replies in that too-jovial, lacrosse-bro voice of his. “Glad to hear you’re still alive! We lost track of you pretty quick last night.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, actually,” d’Artagnan interjects. “I uh, hit it a little harder than usual and I wanted to see if you remembered anything.”

George laughs, and d’Artagnan can just about picture him, white teeth and coiffed hair, and he wonders for a moment why he ended up friends with this guy. “Man, really? You must’ve been plastered. You had a couple of shots and then you saw some guy across the bar and you got all...I don’t know, googly. You were like, ‘hey, what do you think of that guy over there,’ and I was like, ‘I dunno, man, that’s your bag, not mine,’ and you were like ‘okay fine, no homo, what do you think,’ and I said ‘he’s a solid nine,’ and then you made me hold your drink and you went after him.”

Well, at least George isn’t judgmental.

“Okay… did you see me leave with him?” d’Artagnan asks. 

He can hear the shrug in George’s voice. “You looked like you were getting pretty cozy, but I didn’t see you go at all, let alone with somebody else. But that isn’t saying much because Brian got me doing blindfolded shots, so--”

D’Artagnan sighs. Some information, but not quite enough to really be useful. Typical George. “Alright, well thanks. I’ll see you Monday.” He hangs up before George can reply. 

He takes a shower that’s probably longer than necessary, but he thinks back to waking up in the grass and decides it’s justified. He dries off, puts on a t-shirt and a clean-ish pair of dark wash jeans, then remembers that Athos is coming over and swaps them out for something that’s actually clean. In a bit of a manic fit, he cleans the living room and at least takes the bag out of the trash bin, tying it off and setting it by the door. It isn’t perfect, but it’s better than it was. He moves all his work stuff to the corner of the room, out of the way. He even folds the throw that was sitting crumpled on the futon and drapes it over the back. 

It feels like hardly any time has passed at all when the knock comes at the door. D’Artagnan’s stomach flips a little, and he takes a deep breath and straightens his shirt before going over to unlock it. 

Standing in the corridor are two men. D’Artagnan recognizes the first immediately. Something in him, his blood, his mind, his heart - something throbs, and though his first instinct is to surge forward and pull that body against his, he speaks instead, the sound not quite fully formed even as it leaves his mouth. 

“Athos,” he says, scarcely more than a breath. He feels dizzy. 

Athos nods. “This is my friend Porthos. I hope you don’t mind him joining us. He came along for, ah… emotional support.”

D’Artagnan registers the large, handsome, dark-skinned man standing just to the side, but his eyes remain on Athos. He feels as though every nerve is singing. Every fiber and sinew in his body is howling for him to be close to this man, to touch him and to smell him and to taste the salt of his skin and the blood on his lips--

“May we come in?” 

D’Artagnan blinks a few times, then snaps out of the odd little spasm he must have been having. “Oh. Oh, yes, yeah, come on in. Sorry. Spaced out for a second there.”

He steps out of the way so that Athos and Porthos can enter, and he closes the door and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Can I get you anything? Water? Beer? Uh… I don’t have a lot in the way of food, I’m afraid.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Athos replies, curt but not impolite. Porthos interjects. 

“I’ll take some water, please,” he says with a warm smile that reminds d’Artagnan to breathe.

D’Artagnan fills a glass and drops a couple of ice cubes in it before bringing it over to Porthos, who has seated himself in the ratty armchair. D’Artagnan sits on the sofa, curling his legs to the side on the cushion. Athos sits on the other end of the sofa, but they are still very close. D’Artagnan wants nothing more than to just lean over and bury his nose in the curls at the nape of Athos’s neck--

“So what would you like to know first?” Athos asks, and it seems to d’Artagnan that at first, there is the tiniest waver in his voice. “Or… maybe it would be better if Porthos and I just started to explain and you can stop us if you have questions.”

D’Artagnan nods. He can’t quite put his questions to words yet, so he thinks it will be easier to just let them speak and find the words for him. “That’s probably best,” he says, trying to drag his eyes away from the back of Athos’s neck. 

Athos and Porthos exchange a look, and d’Artagnan can almost hear the wordless conversation between them. Should I… I suppose I can just… isn’t going to like it… you’re right, he has to--

“Well, for starters,” Athos begins, and d’Artagnan jumps just a little, startled when he realizes that Athos is speaking aloud, “there’s no easy way to go about explaining what’s happening to you. There’s no… gentle way of putting it, really. You probably won’t believe us at first. Things will start to make sense after a short time. What I think I’ll do is… I’ll tell you a little story. We chatted last night, but we didn’t get much further than the typical new acquaintance talk, and now that you’ve, ah… become something a little different, I think you need some background. It will help.” 

D’Artagnan almost wants to sigh aloud, to tell him to spit it out, to get on with it. At the same time, he dreads the inevitable. A hundred possibilities race through his head so quickly that he can’t quite latch onto any of them long enough to become truly afraid. He swallows against the tightness in his throat and draws his knees up to his chest, putting his arms around them. “I’m ready,” he says after a long moment. 

Athos breathes.

\---Un homme d’un certain age---

I was born what I am. I’ve been told that the bloodline has remained so pure that, without much digging, one could trace it back to the Norman invasion, when my ancestor, Philippe de Tourville, was bitten in the northern French countryside. He tracked down his sire, and, upon discovering that most of the pack his father-wolf belonged to was of noble blood, he married one of the females, the daughter of a decorated old knight who had served in the same time as Philippe’s father had. So on and so forth for generations, wolves marrying wolves and making more birthblood wolves - that is what we are called, that are born to the curse rather than taken and changed by it - all the way up to 1621. What happened then? My brother tried to get out. 

I am four hundred and seventeen years old. Honestly, I’m amazed I made it this far. I think I owe my longevity, at least in part, to my bloodline. The more werewolf in one’s genetic makeup, the fewer human issues they have to worry about - grey hair? Not a problem. Congenital disease? Thing of the past. Wolf breeding wins out above almost all human ailments. Of course, that isn’t to say I haven’t tried--

My brother was younger than me by about five years. Many werewolf families aren’t quite so vain as mine was, especially those that have experienced fertility trouble, which is more or less the one issue common among my - our - people. Sometimes things just don’t go the way they planned. In any case, my brother was the favorite. Not only was he far more agreeable a child than I was, by all accounts, but he also had the nicer coat pattern, the finer hair, the brighter eyes. It was all about breeding for my family, and the fact that I was darker, swarthier, and generally didn’t take too kindly to most of my parents’ bigoted friends only served to make them dislike me more. 

The only failing that Thomas possessed was his utter faith in mankind. He loved humans. Found their joie de vivre and their fragility and… oh, I suppose you could call it their “basicness” fascinating. Our parents mostly kept us as far from humanity as possible, thinking that too much exposure would mar our superior genetic makeup or something equally nonsensical. Thomas, however, would routinely sneak away from la Fere, our family home, on the pretense of visiting other packs on diplomatic missions, when in reality he was traveling into Paris to mingle with the commoners. I, of course, loving my brother as I did (because Thomas was not the kind anyone could resent), would cover for him and make sure our parents did not go sniffing where they didn’t belong. Thomas, in the meantime, failed to tell me that he had met a girl - a human girl, the daughter of a chandler or a cooper or some other such profession. It was love. I didn’t fault him for it, but I was afraid. Only our fellow werewolves knew what we were, so well had our family’s secret been kept for so long. 

To make a long story short, the girl found out. She seemed not to care, but her father… well, thin walls and all that. The next time Thomas came around, it was torches and pitchforks. My family decided that his death was my fault, that somehow I had corrupted him and turned him against his pack. I tried to remind them that Thomas was his own man who made his own decisions, albeit poor ones, but they had made up their minds. I was disowned and stripped of the title that they had never given me in the first place, and that I had never wanted. I soldiered for a while, wandered around a bit. I met Porthos and Aramis in the 1830s, when I looped back to France. They were involved in some ill-advised student rebellion organizations. They were both wolves as well by that point, and they had known each other for about six years. After I saved their sorry asses, we all headed for England together. Then a few years in Greece. Followed by a tour of the rest of the Balkans, where we learned more of Porthos’ and Aramis’s wolf provenances. We went to Spain, Algeria, Morocco, Egypt, India… In the early 1900s, we came to America and discovered that there was enough land here to keep us from overstaying our welcome anywhere. We remained in one place for no more than ten years or so, long enough to seem established, but not long enough that our slow aging processes would be noticed. A hundred years, we’ve been here in the States, and we truly still haven’t seen the entire country. 

I miss France sometimes. More often than I care to admit. I do not miss the bigotry and the superiority complex my family possessed. I do not miss what they stood for. At least here, I am simply a man of a certain age, as the saying goes, and I answer to no one. 

\---

This is not what Athos tells him. In fact, this story is one that it took him almost twenty-five years to tell Aramis and Porthos. Instead, Athos explains that he is sorry, that perhaps Porthos should be the one to explain, because Athos was born what he is while Porthos, like d'Artagnan, was pulled into this life. But propriety and the wolf code dictate that the sire must be the one to initiate the newborn, and Athos has ever been a slave to propriety. He explains that werewolves exist, that they have existed for thousands of years, that his understanding is that while many seem to think that Romulus and Remus were the first, they were merely the first in Europe. Athos tells him that he has, with no malicious intent, made d'Artagnan a werewolf; that he cannot be fully human again, and that he cannot inform any humans of his new nature on pain of death. He will experience the change in one of any number of ways, as the change takes to different people differently, and also varies by the pedigree of the sire. So far, Athos assures him, things seem to be going as well as possible. He does not add that he has known quite a few newly-changed werewolves to die within their first twenty-four hours, since he considers the point rather moot. 

"What was the thing... what happened this morning?" D'Artagnan asks, and Athos has to give him credit for not reacting poorly thus far. "What did you do to me that knocked me out?"

Athos nods in recognition, sighing. "Ah. Yes. That's a bit complicated--"

Porthos coughs into his fist--

"--but I'll try my best to explain. It's called sighting. It happens between some sires and their newborns, which isn't meant to be a pejorative term, it's just the easiest way of describing new wolves. It happens most often when the sire is of a particularly strong bloodline, but it can happen otherwise sometimes, as well." Athos pauses, his eyes a little frenetic as he looks at the floor, trying to choose his words carefully. "It occurs when the sire is... has... ah... designs on--"

"When the sire is sexually interested in the wolf they have just created, and when the newborn is sexually receptive," Porthos supplies. 

D'Artagnan colors visibly, and Athos seems to have a redoubled interest in the floor. "If... if that's the case, why did I pass out? Why can't... if it means he's-- that you're um... sexually interested then why can't it just be like... well, like people?"

Athos sighs, his ears coloring as darkly as d'Artagnan's cheeks just have. "It isn't as simple as with people. Humans can show interest in just about anyone, and that interest changes and wanes and can fall on different partners in different ways. With werewolves, it's, ah..."

"It's the precursor to what is basically a lifetime commitment," Porthos rescues him again. "In cases where the newly-made wolf would not be strong enough to survive the mating - or, in the case of females, the whelping - the sighting can actually be fatal to spare them the pain of an unsuitable coupling."

D'Artagnan is dumbstruck for a long moment. To think that he could have died... to think that perhaps, Athos has killed before in search of a mate - and then if that itself isn't the icing on this huge, fucked-up cake. Mating? Were they serious? Last night he was hoping for a casual lay, now he was, what, breeding stock? Or...whatever?

"Please say something," Athos says, his voice heartbreakingly small.

D'Artagnan can hardly breathe, let alone form a cohesive thought. He stares somewhere in the vicinity of the ratty secondhand rug, his chest feeling too small to contain his heart and ribs and everything that's meant to go in there. It wasn't like he had a significant other, or any romantic prospects to speak of, but the fact that he has just been told, in effect, that he's bound for life to a man who, for all intents and purposes, is a stranger to him is more than a little jarring. 

"It...doesn't have to be permanent," Athos adds, his voice even smaller than before. "The pairing. It's not as ironclad as Porthos makes it out to be."

D'Artagnan finally takes a lungful of air and stands, swaying less than he expects to. "I need... a drink. Or a nap. This is..."

"A lot to take in," Porthos agrees. "Would you prefer us to leave?"

"No," he replies without hesitation, which puzzles him. "No. I just...need to clear my head a minute. Wait right here." He heads back to his room without a backward glance and shuts the door, slumping to the floor against it. 

He has to admit, he's surprised at how little the whole werewolf part bothers him. As fantastical as it may sound, some part of him has already reconciled that fact. Perhaps it's the new wolf budding inside him, but he feels a bit nonplussed by it. The thing that's actually an issue for him is the mating bit. If he's being honest, that probably wouldn't even have been an issue if it had come up later, if he'd had a few weeks to settle into his new self and explore the new territory, not to mention gotten to know Athos a bit better. He is a bit upset with himself, too, for how quickly that little flame of lust that had been burning in his belly since Athos arrived had turned to fear and uncertainty when Athos and Porthos told him the truth. He wrestles a bit with that, because he has every right to change his mind about wanting to sleep with anybody, but he also, somewhere in his heart, or his mind, or even his prick, as the case may be, is fairly certain that he does still want to sleep with Athos. And then he wrestles a little more because he wonders if the wolf in him now, if the sighting, as they had called it, had removed him of his own will in this. But then he decides that no, he still has his own mind and he can consent or not consent to whatever he pleases. 

But a few things still bother him. When he had woken up on the side of the road, he'd had blood on him. As far as he could tell, he hadn't sustained any injuries, apart from Athos's bite. And that - where had he been bitten? Why hadn't he seen a wound when he showered earlier? He feels a little more centered now, and takes a few more deep breaths to clear the last of the nerves out of his chest. Standing up, he regards himself in the mirror over his bureau for just a second, making sure he doesn't look quite as haggard as he feels. Satisfied, he heads back into the main room, where Athos and Porthos seem to be having a soft conversation. D'Artagnan can't make out what they're saying, and that could be for the blood suddenly rushing in his ears again at the sight of Athos on his sofa, knees drawn up to his chest in a self-defensive gesture. D'Artagnan blushes in shame at the thought that he's maybe upset Athos, that he's somehow caused him fear or worry. He clears his throat and both Athos and Porthos look up. Immediately, Athos puts his legs down, sitting straighter. 

"I have... some questions," d'Artagnan says, resisting the urge to tell Athos he doesn't mind his feet on the sofa, it's a piece of shit anyway. 

Athos nods, seeming to have traded self-consciousness for authority. "You are entitled to your questions. Ask away."

"Right. First. If you bit me," he begins, still standing, "then where is the wound? Where did you bite me?"

Athos looks a little sheepish as he answers. "As to why there is no mark, the bite heals by the time the bitten person comes out of their first transformation. It's the body's way of accepting the virus; only humans who do not survive the bite are left with a wound. As far as where I bit you is concerned... I'm afraid I'm not sure."

"You're not sure where you bit me?" d'Artagnan asks, lifting ebony brows higher than any of them would have thought physically possible. "Have your eyes closed, did you?"

Athos blushes a little, his gaze dropping. "Well if you want to know that badly, I could check. It's...hard for me sometimes, to remember the things that happen when my wolf takes over."

A flash of fear sends adrenaline pulsing thickly through d'Artagnan's veins as he remembers waking up in the grass. "Is that true of all werewolves?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sound quite as terrified as he feels.

Athos shakes his head. "Not exactly, no. Once you've had the shift a few times and you get to know your wolf a bit better, your memory won't be so cloudy. But ah... in older wolves - or rather, those of us who've been around the block a few times - it's more a matter of having dulled my senses enough that I, for all intents and purposes, black out while I'm in the shift."

"Fantastic," d'Artagnan mutters under his breath. "Well. Alright. I suppose we both should know where this mark is. What do you need me to do?"

Athos stands. "If you wouldn't mind taking off your shirt," he requests.

D'Artagnan obeys. What's the worst that could happen?


End file.
